Where's Pennyworth?
by sjohn2999
Summary: Alfred Pennyworth, being the busy man that he is, sometimes needs to enlist the help of others in order to carry out all of his tasks. When that task happens to be picking Damian up from school, nothing can be as simple as expected, can it? Damian just has to be difficult.


**Where's Pennyworth?**

"Where's Pennyworth?"

Dick looks up from where he's leaning against his car, arms crossed casually in front of him, to find a frowning Damian standing before him.

"Good to see you, too, Li'l D," Dick grins back.

Damian's scowl deepens, and he raises an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for an answer to his question.

"He's got his hands full with prep for the gala tonight. He asked that I swing by to pick you up on my way over," Dick told him.

"And _this_ was your only option?" Damian asks coolly, gesturing at the squad car his uniformed brother is using as a chair.

Dick removes the Aviators perched on his nose, tucks them into the breast pocket of his shirt, and looks down at the car in overdone puzzlement, "What's wrong with it?" The innocence in his tone does nothing to hide the amusement.

The question is answered by a snide remark directed at them by one of Damian's classmates from across the street: "HEY, OFFICER! WHAT DID HE DO? TAX EVASION? ARROGANCE? SCOWLING TOO MUCH?"

"That is what is wrong with it," Damian hisses, as Dick chuckles at the boy's comment, "but, of course, you are just as much of a child as the children that attend this school. Naturally you would show up in full uniform."

"Oh, come on, D," Dick placates as he opens the passenger door for Damian, "it's a little funny. Admit it."

"I am not getting in there," Damian states, crossing his arms for emphasis.

Dick cocks his head to the side and studies Damian for a few moments, then shuts the door and nods, all seriousness. "You're right," he says, levering himself away from the vehicle and walking over to his brother, "You're used to Al driving you. Good ole, Al: sitting up front, making proper conversation, always the soul of British decorum." Dick takes hold of Damian's shoulders and begins to steer him toward the car, "I apologize. I'll do my best to replicate that experience from now on. My hat already looks enough like a chauffer's, and just to make you feel comfortable, I'll let you sit in the back."

Not quite sure what his brother is attempting to do, but suspicious all the same, Damian allows himself to be reluctantly pushed forward. It's only when Dick begins to guide Damian into the vehicle like a perp – one hand on the top of Damian's head to prevent it from banging on the doorframe – does he cotton on to the joke.

Damian's reaction time has always been admirable, and the speed with which he escapes his captor's grasp with a well-placed elbow to the gut, slams the back door closed, throws his schoolbag into the passenger's side, and angrily settles in behind it does himself credit.

Judging by the way he's bent over in laughter, Dick doesn't seem to regret his amusing little stunt, despite the bruise he'll likely have in the morning. Trying, and failing, to pass off his continuing glee as a fit of coughing, Dick grins at Damian's narrowed eyes and coaxes, "Ah, don't be like that, Dami. I was just having fun with you."

"Your idea of 'fun' leaves much to be desired," Damian replies caustically, "Now, can we get out of here, or do you have to finish making eyes at the young, female teachers who have been periodically glancing over here this whole time?"

If possible, Dick grins even more broadly, "I didn't think you had noticed that."

Damian scoffs, "Everyone has noticed, Grayson. You are not exactly subtle. Pennyworth would never be so unprofessional."

"I would hope Alfred doesn't go around making eyes at young teachers," Dick replies, but he takes the hint and makes his way to the driver's side, but not before smoothly placing his shades back over his eyes at tipping the brim of his hat cheekily at the teachers in question.

Holding his injured side as he lowers himself into the car, Dick glances over at Damian and starts the engine. "Do you forgive me?" he asks.

Damian rolls his eyes, "I suppose you cannot help being an idiot given all the time you spend with West. Just try not to embarrass me further as we leave."

"You have my word," Dick responds cheerfully, shifting the car into drive and pulling away from the curb. Just as Damian starts to visibly relax, Dick flips a switch on the dash and the squad car lets out a high-pitched _whoop!_

"Grayson!"

* * *

"Where's Pennyworth?"

Jason has his visor up and is shouting, "Get on!" before the bike has even stopped.

Unimpressed by his elder's entrance, Damian repeats, "Where's Pennyworth?"

"Dear Ole Dad needed him, now get on!" Jason tosses Damian a red motorcycle helmet he dug out from under the seat.

Damian catches it instinctively, but makes no move to do as demanded. "What about Grayson?" he asks instead.

"Look, Kid, I don't have all day!" Jason's voice is irritated, and he's still shouting to be heard over the rumble of his vehicle, "Get on the bike, or I leave you here."

Damian scoffs, "Even you are not so moronic as to openly invite Pennyworth's disapproval," and he can tell by the answering scowl that he's correct.

Seeing this is going to take longer than he had expected, Jason sighs as he impatiently shoves the kickstand into place and removes his own helmet. "Golden Boy's precinct is working security detail for some event with the mayor."

"What about Drake?"

" _Really?!_ " incredulity weighs heavily on the word, "You'd rather have _Drake_ pick you up? As much as you hate me, I thought I at least had Drake beat."

"I would rather have _Pennyworth_ pick me up," Damian retorts, and Jason swears he would have been able to _hear_ the accompanying eye roll if he wasn't already in the position to see it, "but since I cannot seem to have what I want in this case, I would prefer to know why he has decided to send the one that must be his last resort."

"Why do you assume I rank under Timmy?"

"Because _he_ , at least, would show up with a mode of transportation most people deem appropriate for someone of my age," Damian's answer is dripping with scorn, "In case you were unaware, most children are not allowed to race around the streets on a motorcycle. Now, where's Drake?"

Jason groans in exasperation, turns off his motorcycle, stalks over to his companion, forcibly removes Damian's backpack from his shoulder, stows it roughly on the bike, whirls around to glare at the boy, and says "I don't know, and I don't care. What, do you think I keep tabs on him?"

"That is exactly what I think. I would be very surprised if you did not keep tabs on all of us."

Jason blinks. There's a pause in which Damian waits for his answer, and Jason fumes at having to play 20 questions. Clenching and unclenching a hand in his hair, Jason growls, "He's been in a meeting at LexCorps for the last three hours. Now that we've established that I'm the only one who was free to play chauffer, will you _get on the damn bike?!_ "

Damian walks regally over to the vehicle, fits the helmet over his head, and swings a leg over the seat, "No need for dramatics, Todd. Let's be off. You've wasted enough time dallying as it is."

Jason's curses are mostly drowned out by the roar of the motorcycle as the engine turns over.

In typical Damian fashion, he decides to push the limits of his driver's already frayed patience, "On Wednesdays, Alfred and I stop for ice cream."

The casual observer would mistake that statement as merely that, but Jason hears the implied "Can we stop for ice cream?"

"Fine," Jason yells backward to his passenger, "but you're buying."

* * *

"Where's Pennyworth?"

Tim waits until he's finished typing something, presumably an email, into his phone before looking up and answering, "Dr. Thompkins asked for his expertise on a surgery she has planned for next week. He's gone in to consult with her." The phone in his hand chimes and the rapid typing resumes.

Damian, predictably, does not look pleased, "Why does Pennyworth insist on sending others to pick me up? I am capable of getting home on my own if necessary. I _do_ know how to drive." He takes in the car Tim has arrived in; a sensible, four-door sedan in the most inauspicious shade of tan he's ever seen; weighing the chances that he can steal the keys from the pocket of Drake's suit coat hanging on the open passenger's door, make it to the driver's seat, and drive away before Drake can catch him. Unfortunately, his odds seem pathetically slim, even with Drake distracted by his email.

"It's not so much a question of competence as it is legality," Tim answers drily, "We can't have you drawing attention to yourself, now can we?" Ignoring Damian's - _tt-_ of discontent and continuing to scroll down the screen of his phone, he elaborates, "So, until you put on a couple years, you'll have to settle with having us _imposters_ spirit you around."

"What about Grayson?" Damian demands, not even bothering to acknowledge Drake's comments.

Tim frowns at the device in his hands and lowers his voice but doesn't look up, "The League called him in for some undercover work."

"What kind of undercover work?" Damian sounds offended that no one had bothered to consult him in the matter.

"I don't know. That's why they call it _undercover,_ " Tim quips, still paying more attention to the phone in his hand than the boy with whom he's speaking.

"What about Todd?"

This _does_ get Tim's attention, eyes snapping to Damian's face. The disbelief in his voice is practically palpable, " _Jason? Really?_ You two get ice cream _one time,_ and you're suddenly BFFs?"

"Hardly," Damian scoffs, "Todd is tedious on a good day, but he let me drive once we hit the back roads."

"Of course he did," Tim rolls his eyes and goes back to his business, "Jason's off the grid for a while. A couple of bounty hunters got a bit too close for comfort. Who knew being an outlaw had such benefits as not having to drive around an ungrateful, little brother?"

When Damian fails to respond with a suitably violent rejoinder, Tim stops what he's working on, seemingly mid-word. He slips the phone into the pocket of his suit pants and questions, "What? No threats to my life?"

Damian shrugs unconcernedly, "Not until I have concluded that I cannot work this situation to my benefit. If I find that there is no silver lining to being forced to spend time in your company, the threats will not be in short supply." His voice turns mockingly polite, "May I request a moment to consider the possibilities?"

Sensing a deal was about to be struck, Tim inclines his head, "By all means," then pushes the already semi-rolled sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows and crosses his arms to wait.

The two young men stand on opposite sides of the sidewalk from each other, outwardly relaxed, and faces betraying nothing. Superimpose a conference table between them and one would think they are witnessing a corporate showdown.

Clearing his throat, Damian makes the first move, "I would like unfettered access to Drake Industries' server."

"In exchange for what?" Tim asks, picking an invisible ball of lint off his sleeve.

"I will refrain from maiming you."

Even the casual observer can tell that it takes everything Tim has not to sigh in exasperation. When he speaks, however, his annoyance does not show in his voice, "Something of equal or greater value, Mr. Wayne."

Damian seems displeased, but not unsurprised, by the rejection of his offer, "I will perform tune-ups on all your extracurricular vehicles this week."

Tim takes a moment to weigh the proposal, then delivers one of his own, "Counter offer: I will provide you with last month's financial statements, and you will give me the new R-cycle Lucius brought over last night."

"Ten years' worth of financial statements, and I will do your vehicle maintenance for an entire month," Damian counters through clenched teeth.

The haggling takes on a more intense speed, both boys hoping the other will slip up.

"Six months of financial statements, and we share the new bike."

"Eight years, and I'll install WE's new guidance system in your current bike."

"Two years, and I get the new guidance system and the month's worth of maintenance."

"Six years for the guidance and two weeks of maintenance."

"Five for guidance, two weeks, and I get to use the new bike on tonight's patrol."

"Tomorrow's patrol – I get to use it first – but it will cost you another year."

The boys stare at one another in silence for a few tense moments, then Tim smirks, "I can live with that. It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wayne."

Damian shakes the hand Tim offers him, "I should say, 'The pleasure has been all mine, Mr. Drake,' but it would be a lie. The pleasure has clearly been all yours."

Tim shakes his head but lets out a cheerful laugh as he grabs his jacket off its perch and moves to the other side of the car. "Just get in, Demon. We'll head to the Industries so I can get you those statements for the last five years before we head to the manor."

Tossing his bag on the car's floor and removing his own blazer, Damian slides into his seat with a scathing, "Already trying to cheat me, Drake? I believe we agreed on six years."

"Can you really blame me for trying?" Tim grins his response as he starts the car.

"I suppose not," Damian concedes as they pull away from his school, "but you'll have to try harder than that. Pathetic, Drake."

* * *

"Where's Pennyworth?"

"I gave him the day off," Bruce Wayne calmly tells his son when he comes to a halt before the obnoxiously red Lamborghini convertible, "It's been long overdue, don't you agree?"

"Perhaps," Damian replies noncommittally, "What about Grayson? Where is he?"

"I don't know," Bruce's casual shrug draws more attention from the other people waiting to pick up their children than his flashy car ever could. It's not every day Bruce Wayne is spotted doing anything other than attending social functions or hitting up the chicest clubs. "He's probably at work, or something."

"And Todd?" Damian asks. He seems suspicious that his father is the one to pick him up today. Surely the others must be seriously indisposed if the Batman is doing something as trivial as picking Damian up from school.

Bruce aims a smarmy smile at a woman who has edged a little too close to their conversation and watches her scurry off in flushed embarrassment before answering, "Again, I don't know. Jason doesn't check in with me before he does anything these days. I would imagine he's off on that little island of his, sunbathing, I suppose."

Damian frowns and shifts the weight of his schoolbag from one shoulder to the other, "Drake?"

"Damian, I don't know where your brothers are, but if I knew you were so eager to see them I would have brought them with me. If it's any consolation I asked them to meet up with us for patrol this evening, so you'll see them then."

Mortified that his father thought he _missed_ his "brothers," Damian hastens to rectify the misunderstanding, "That – that is not it, Father."

"Then what _is_ it, Damian? Are you embarrassed to be seen with me? I hadn't thought we had reached that point in our relationship yet, Son. I thought I still had a couple years left," Bruce seems alarmed that he has possibly judged the situation so poorly.

"No, no, no," Damian hurries to explain, "it is just that I thought you might have… more important things to do than drive all the way out here to pick me up…" The end of his sentence trails off softly, and he looks at his shoes awkwardly.

Bruce studies his son thoughtfully. "'More important things,' you say? Hmm. Like testing Ro-Bat prototypes? Or attending board meetings? Or visiting Oracle to follow up on some leads?" he asks.

Damian nods miserably.

"You're right," Bruce continues lightly, "There's a lot to do. We better get started." He digs the keys out of his slacks and is closing the car door behind him before Damian has processed his words.

"Wait, 'we?'" he inquires hopefully.

"Of course, Damian," Bruce raises his voice over the roar of the engine, "I'll need your input, partner."

Damian's smile is as close to a grin as he ever gets, and his excitement is such that he gets into the car without bothering to open the door, much the same way his eldest brother would have done.

As Damian buckles himself into the seat, Bruce adds, "And when we're finished, I was hoping you would indulge me and let me pick up a couple pizzas to eat while we play some chess. Is that alright?"

This time the grin is unmistakable, even if Damian's answer does not seem as pleased, "I suppose I could allow it, Father."

"Thank you, Damian. Your generosity never ceases to amaze me," Bruce beams right back.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Master Damian."

"Pennyworth," Damian acknowledges shortly, handing his backpack to the butler and stepping through the car door that has been opened for him.

Alfred shuts the door behind his young charge and proceeds to his spot behind the wheel. "How was school today, young sir?" he ventures after he has successfully maneuvered himself into the flow of departing traffic.

"Tiresome, as always," is the muttered reply. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Alfred notices that Damian seems preoccupied with his thoughts, brows furrowed in concentration as he gazes out the window.

"Something on your mind, Master Damian?" Alfred prods gently.

"No."

That's very clearly not the case, but Alfred lets it go, content to drive in silence.

The scenery outside has shifted from skyscrapers to rolling estates by the time anyone speaks again: "Pennyworth."

"Yes?"

"I have noticed that you have been rather busy as of late," Damian says, addressing his words to the window.

"Indeed." Alfred thinks he knows where this is going but wants to let Damian get there on his own.

Damian takes his time about it though. He takes care in planning the wording of his next sentence: "If you find that your duties prevent you from driving me after school, I can occasionally put up with being picked up by the others. If necessary."

Alfred has to work to hold back his smile, "I see. So I take it the other young masters were adequate substitutes?"

"No. Grayson, Todd, and Drake were just as incompetent as always," Damian turns away from the window to glare at the back of Alfred's head. "Grayson likes to make a scene, Todd is a thoroughly reckless driver, and Drake becomes more irritating by the day. I just thought I might be doing you a favor, since you seem to be unable to handle all your duties in your advanced age," Damian snaps, slouching grumpily in his seat.

"Forgive me, sir. I should never have assumed you could possibly enjoy attention from your older brothers. Being practically at death's door must be addling my perceptions," Alfred deadpans.

"I will let it slide this time, Pennyworth," Damian says arrogantly, turning back to the window, "Perhaps I should speak to Father about giving you more days off. We would not want to see your productivity suffer due to your geriatric state, would we?"

"You are too kind, Master Damian," Alfred lets the sarcasm slip into his voice and wonders, not for the first time, at this boy's ability to flap even the most unflappable of people.

They've reached the manor by now, and Alfred brakes and shifts into park more forcefully than strictly necessary. He's seething under his cool exterior as he walks around the vehicle to let Damian out of the back. He opens the door, and Alfred expects to see same haughtiness and entitlement on Damian's face that are present in his words; but, instead, Alfred is met with open, unguarded eyes that successfully convey the gratitude the words have failed to impart.

Damian climbs out of the car, slings his bag over his shoulder and hesitantly places a hand on Alfred's arm, "Thank you, Alfred."

The thank you encompasses many things – Thank you for picking me up. Thank you for putting up with my rudeness. Thank you for manipulating us stubborn vigilantes into spending time together. Thank you for not mentioning that I _liked_ spending time with them. – and Alfred hears them all.

"You are most welcome, Master Damian."

Damian nods and walks into the house, and Alfred starts to put the car away. He knows they will never speak of this again, as happens with most things involving feelings in this family, but Alfred feels a little more confident that the assortment of people Master Bruce has managed to acquire over the years _do_ actually make up a family.

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading!**


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